Crossing The Line

Ethan's POV

I've done a hundred interviews, maybe more.

Local papers. Regional sports blogs. Even one national piece after last season's championship run. They all go the same way-smiles, canned questions, and me spitting out answers I've already rehearsed in the mirror. We play hard. We're focused on the next game. One day at a time.

Nobody expects me to mean any of it. They just want a clean soundbite to slap under a photo of me hitting a three-pointer. A script. A performance.

But Ava Reynolds? She didn't come at me with softballs. She jabbed like she was trying to draw blood.

And I'll admit-it threw me.

I watch her leave the gym, notebook tucked tight against her chest, back stiff with irritation. She doesn't even glance over her shoulder. Most people linger around me, hovering for attention, hoping for a smile or a word. She couldn't get away fast enough.

My teammates are still scattered across the court, winding down-Marcus sitting on the baseline stretching, Jordan trying to spin a ball on one finger, others laughing about a play that went wrong. The air is thick with sweat and the squeak of sneakers.

Marcus jogs over and bumps his shoulder into mine, a grin splitting his face. "Damn, Cole. That was brutal. Think you made her cry?"

"Please." I grab my water bottle, twisting the cap too hard. "She came at me swinging."

Jordan joins in, smirk already in place. "I saw the way she looked at you. Like she wanted to set you on fire."

"Good." I drain half the bottle in one go. "Maybe she'll find someone else to bother."

Except the problem is, she's not going to. She's covering us all season. Which means I'll be seeing her face-those sharp eyes, that don't-mess-with-me tone-every practice, every bus ride, every game.

The guys laugh, already moving on to other things, but my chest feels tight in a way I can't shake. Because here's the truth: she wasn't wrong.

About the ego. About the arrogance. About me deflecting questions like I'm allergic to honesty.

The thing is, if I start being honest, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop.

And there's too much I can't afford to say.

That night, the apartment is quiet when I unlock the door.

Tyler's on the couch with his textbooks spread around him like a fort, earbuds in, head bent low. Fifteen and already taller than half my teammates, though he's still all elbows, knees, and the occasional voice crack.

"Hey," I say, tossing my duffel into the corner.

He glances up, pulls one earbud out. "How was practice?"

"Same as always." I drop into the armchair across from him. "How was school?"

He shrugs. "Fine."

That's our rhythm. Short answers. Heavy silences. But it works.

I rub my knee absentmindedly, the joint still tight from landing wrong earlier. Tyler notices, because of course he does. His eyes flick to my hand, then to my face.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," I say quickly, forcing a grin. "Just need to ice it later."

He narrows his eyes, suspicion written all over him, but he doesn't push. That's Tyler. He sees everything, says nothing, carries it quietly.

We eat leftovers-microwaved pasta that tastes vaguely of cardboard-then watch a little TV until he disappears into his room. I stay behind in the living room, the glow of the muted screen washing over me.

My knee throbs steady as a drumbeat. Ava's voice won't leave my head.

Readers want detail. Insight. Maybe even a little honesty.

She'd said it like a challenge, daring me to step up, daring me to drop the act.

And for the first time in a long time, I wonder what would happen if I actually rose to it.

Game night is always the same.

Bright lights. Loud music. The crowd chants our names until the rafters shake. The smell of popcorn, sweat, and floor polish all mixing together. My sneakers hit the hardwood, and the mask slides into place automatically.

Ethan Cole, star guard. Ethan Cole, campus hero. Ethan Cole, untouchable.

The roar of the crowd drowns out everything else. The worries. The pressure. The ache gnawing at my knee. Out here, none of it exists. Out here, I'm invincible.

At least, that's what they all think.

I catch Ava in the press box, pen flying across her notebook. She doesn't clap, doesn't cheer. Just watches, eyes sharp and steady, like she's trying to take me apart and see what's underneath.

It should annoy me. Instead, it makes something hot burn in my chest.

So I push harder. Faster. Drive the ball down the court and sink a three. The gym erupts. I push again, cutting through defenders, taking it to the rim. The dunk rattles the backboard, the crowd on its feet.

I grin, arms raised, soaking it in. But the landing sends a bolt of pain shooting through my knee, sharp enough to make me suck in a breath.

I don't let it show. Can't let it show.

Because if the scouts see weakness, if my teammates see doubt, if Ava Reynolds writes "reckless" in tomorrow's paper-then all of this, every hour I've spent grinding, every sacrifice I've made-starts to unravel.

And I can't let that happen. Not when Tyler's counting on me. Not when this season is my only shot at going pro, at dragging us both out of the mess we were born into.

So I run harder. Smile wider. Pretend I don't feel like I'm playing with a time bomb strapped to my leg.

After the game, the locker room is a blur of high-fives, towel snaps, and trash talk. Reporters swarm the hallway, recorders raised, but I duck out fast, hoodie pulled over my head before anyone can stop me.

Outside, the night air bites sharp and cold. My knee throbs with every step, but I keep walking, jaw tight, hoodie strings pulled low.

Because I can already see the headline in tomorrow's paper.

Ethan Cole: Brilliant, but reckless.

And damn it-she'd be right.